


Saints and Monsters

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Execution, Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Anders awaits his execution at the hands of the Prince of Starkhaven.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Saints and Monsters

He lay on the cold floor of the dungeon, watching the sky lighten through the window. His mind was purposefully blank. If he let the fact of his death inside, his body would respond, and nothing would give Sebastian more satisfaction than to see him tremble.

 **Fight** , growled Justice. **The prince grinds the weak under his heel in the name of god, and you would die like a dog at his feet.**

 _Leave me alone_ , thought Anders. He had done all he could for the mages, but he could give them no more. He was tired. All his life he had fought against the injustice of the world, and now he only wanted rest.

He wondered how Sebastian would do it.

Burning seemed likely. The Starkhaveners used to burn apostates at the stake, not long ago. Or maybe they would tie his arms and legs to four wild horses and let them tear him apart.

Anders sat up. His joints ached from the beating the Templars had given him. They had kicked him in the head until he blacked out, and the sight in his left eye had not returned. Crawling to the far wall, he licked at a trickle of moisture. His throat was so parched.

 **The people will rise in our defense** , said Justice. **They must recognize our cause as righteous.**

 _The people will cheer as they mount our head on a spike,_ thought Anders. He had no illusions. The mundanes of Starkhaven would celebrate his death the same way they celebrated the death of any other apostate. Even some of the mages might breathe a sigh of relief. There was no shortage of Circle loyalists who would happily skin him alive if it meant they could return to their chained life of stifled captivity.

 **Our friends will come,** said Justice.

Anders rested his brow against the wall. He had no idea where Hawke and Varric were, but he sincerely doubted they would raise a hand to stop his execution.

The heavy iron door shrieked open. Two Templars entered the room and grabbed him by the arms.

Anders made no attempt to get his legs under him. The dungeon stairs bruised his knees and shins, and his feet wove grooves in the dust as they dragged him across the yard.

To his surprise, the execution was not to take place in front of a crowd, but in a walled courtyard with only a handful of people present.

Was Sebastian that worried that someone would interfere? It seemed overly cautious, but then the Prince of Starkhaven had spent years and thousands of sovereigns hunting him down. He would take no risks.

The courtyard was meant for reflection, with pebbles instead of grass and a single black tree instead of flowers. There were a few lords and ladies in attendance, as well as some Chantry mothers. The Templars halted, and one of the mothers stepped forward. She started to place a hand on Anders’ head, noticed his grime, and hovered it over him instead.

“May the Maker have mercy on your soul,” she said.

Justice roared to life. **“HYPOCRITE.”**

They lunged at her, and the Templars yanked them back. The mother recoiled in horror.

“You cannot frighten me, abomination,” she spat, and retreated to the rest of her sisters.

As soon as it had crashed into him, the power rushed out. Anders sagged and let the Templars stand him against the tree and tie him there.

A rooster crowed. The dawn was chilly, but the sun was warm. Anders tried very hard not to think about anything. Not his mother, not Karl, and not the nights he had spent playing cards with his friends at the Hanged Man. How endless his life had once seemed. 

A wooden door thudded open, and the Prince of Starkhaven emerged from his castle. Sunlight licked off his white armor, and his crown glowed like a red-gold flame. His blue eyes fixed on Anders, and just as they had the day he had captured him, flashed with hatred.

“Read the charges,” said Sebastian.

A man in a velvet doublet stepped forward with a scroll heavy with seals. “The apostate known as Anders stands convicted of apostasy, consorting with demons, aiding and abetting the mage underground, rebellion against the Chantry, terrorism, inciting violence against the free people of Thedas, and the murder of Grand Cleric Elthina. We charge him in the sight of the Maker and the Crown of Starkhaven as guilty on all counts and hereby sentenced to death.”

A young boy stepped forward, carrying a silver bow that was twice as tall as him and a quiver of arrows. Sebastian took the bow.

“I will hear you say her name,” said Sebastian. “You will beg for mercy before this ends.”

It wasn’t unlikely. Anders was not so foolish as to think himself immune to pain. If this went on as long as he suspected it would, he might say all sorts of things he didn’t believe.

The bowstring creaked as Sebastian drew it back.

Many years ago, when Sebastian was still new to their group, Hawke had invited the prince to go bounty hunting with them on the coast. Sebastian’s armor had been so shiny, and his fingernails so clean, that Anders was skeptical that the man had ever shot anything bigger than a squirrel.

That doubt vanished on the day the raiders ambushed them. It was a bloody battle, magic and steel sparking in the air, and Anders had fallen under the knives of a pirate.

He would never forget how Sebastian, a field away, had nocked an arrow and, with utmost patience, aimed, held, and released. The arrow passed through the pirate’s chest as if it was pudding and thwacked between Anders’ fingers in the sand.

The prince was a marksman, and if he did not want Anders to die quickly, he would not die quickly.

The arrow struck him in the knee.

Anders screamed. Pain flashed red behind his eyes. He twisted in the ropes, and found his left leg pinned by the arrow to the tree.

The prince drew another arrow.

“Say her name,” said Sebastian.

The second arrow sang through the air. It struck him in the shoulder and drove the breath out of him.

“Say her name,” said Sebastian.

Anders writhed. Agony roiled in his body, pain and numbness in equal parts. He threw his gaze to the sky, and wondered if it was too late to hope that someone might save him.

It went on like for what felt like ages. An arrow in his shin, his side, his arm. Blood streamed in rivers down his body, and yet he did not die. One of the Chantry mothers vomited.

Justice raged inside him like a tiger. With every wave of pain, it surged, a storm of bloody vengeance. Anders felt it try to take over his flesh, only for his own will to shove it back down.

 **FIGHT!** It howled.

 _I did,_ thought Anders. _And I lost._

Sebastian’s face was a mask of fury. He reached for another arrow, only to find the quiver empty.

“Go get more,” he snapped at the boy, who took off running. Then he turned his glare on Anders. “How does it feel, mage? To suffer a fraction of the pain you’ve inflicted on Thedas? Mages and Templars at war in every corner, and for what? For your pride?”

Sebastian handed his bow to an attendant and stormed forward. He pushed his face close to Anders’.

“Say her name,” he hissed.

Anders panted. None of this mattered. It did not matter what he said or what he did, no more than it ever had.

And yet, from the depths of him, came something like anger. Sebastian, who had sat at their card table among elves, mages, and refugees and pretended he was one of them. Who had threatened, casually, for years, to give Anders to the Templars. Who now ruled his people the way nobles had always ruled: with no thought for the downtrodden. That he was standing here with a crown on his head while Anders was tied to a tree was _unjust_.

“Elthina….” Anders licked his lips.

Sebastian leaned closer.

“Got what she deserved,” said Anders. “As will you, one day.”

Sebastian lurched back. He stared at Anders, disbelieving.

“You dare.” He grabbed Anders’ face and dug his nails into the flesh. “You dare to judge me, apostate? You, the murderer?”

He slammed Anders’ head against the tree,

“You’ve lost,” he hissed. “Even as we speak, the rebels are routed. They’ll be put down, and the mages sent back to the Circles where they belong. And once there, we’ll make sure they never wreak chaos on the world again. I swear it.”

Then he whirled away. His woolen cloak brushed against the shafts of the arrows sticking from Anders’ flesh. He returned to his spot, where the boy awaited with a full quiver.

“I will not pray for you,” said Sebastian.

He drew the last arrow.

 _Time to die,_ thought Anders. No more delusions of winning. No more hopes of victory. It was really all over.

Sebastian was not wrong. The mages would never win. They could fight for a hundred years and the mundanes would simply kill them, as they always did. The only thing they could hope for was bloody resistance.

All at once, Anders understood Orsino. He understood the poor First Enchanter who had beheld the bodies of his students and decided to burn the world down. What good was the world, if it was built on this? What point was there in being a good man if they just murdered you anyway?

What good was he, if he did not take down everyone who dared put mages in cages?

 **Fight** , whispered Justice.

Power surged into him. One of the Templars turned his head.

 **Fight** , whispered Justice.

He had fought his whole life. He had fought until they wore him down to ashes, and still he had fought. All he ever wanted was to have his own life, and they would not give him even that.

If he couldn't win, could he at least struggle? Could he at least make sure there were fewer of his enemy in the world? 

His own blood was all over him. 

**FIGHT** , commanded Justice.

Anders heard him. 

The arrow cut through the air and struck him in the heart.

Justice rushed inside.

With strength he had never felt before, he tore the ropes that bound his wrists, then thrashed until the arrow shafts in his arms snapped.

The nearest Templar lunged. He swung his sword at Anders’ head. Anders caught it in his hand and yanked it from the knight as if it was no more than a toy. Then, flesh tearing, he stepped away from the tree.

People were screaming. Anders drew on the power in his blood and pointed a finger at the Templar. The Templar’s eyes burst like grapes and he fell back with a cry.

The other Templar was frozen in shock. Anders picked a rock from the ground and with inhuman power hurled it through the Templar’s chest.

The air shifted, and Anders ducked. An arrow clattered against the courtyard wall. He turned and saw Sebastian nocking another arrow. Behind him, the Chantry mothers and nobles were running for the door.

“No,” said Anders. He reached into their blood, and yanked them back like puppets. They sprawled on the courtyard ground.

“Monster!” shouted Sebastian.

 **“Yes,”** said Anders and Justice.

They leapt forward so fast that Sebastian staggered back. Then, with one bloody hand, they grabbed the Prince’s head and ripped it off his body.

The rest were not difficult to dispatch. They poured power into their wounds and watched them slowly heal.

 **“There is a Chantry in Starkhaven,”** intoned Justice.

"I know," said Anders.

He walked out of the Prince’s courtyard alone. He was a rebel mage in a city of faithful without a hope of victory.

But he would survive. He would resist.

He would find a way forward. 


End file.
